


You Walk So Far Ahead Of Me (And Still I Reach For You)

by Mabfefe



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: After a night of heavy drinking, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, And tasty fried chicken, It will not live up to expecations, M/M, Please do not take it too seriously, Slow Burn, Sort of? - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, This all began as a dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mabfefe/pseuds/Mabfefe
Summary: Lawrence “Larry” Daley lives, dies, and lives again. So is the cycle of the world. Time here in this universe – in all universes – is liquid; it bends and flows and slips easily through his hands. His soul sleeps and wakes as the sun rises and falls.‘A gift.’He was told. Long, long ago by a voice he can barely remember. But it was warm. It was kind.A voice that said:‘I love you, my creation, my child, my little one. I made all this. All that you see. All that you do not see. For you. For countless others like you. Rejoice.’But how can he? How can he when he is half of a whole. Incomplete. Searching, always searching.‘A compromise,’The voice replied.‘I made you. I love you. I want you to be happy. Please be happy.’He tries. For that kind voice. For that warm voice. For that voice that loves him (loved him?).Each life is different from the last. In some, he leaves too soon. In some, he stays too long. In some, he does not come back immediately. Forced to watch and wait and wonder when his time will come again. If it will come at all. He wonders often if it would be better to not come back.
Relationships: Ahkmenrah/Larry Daley
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	1. Act I, Scene I // Look to the Stars, For I Will Be There

_“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language_

_And next year’s words await another voice.”_

_~ T. S. Eliot_

He is thrust into the universe as a star, molten and bright and very much alone.

_‘Too soon,’_ something whispers. _‘Too soon. Not here. Not yet.’_

He orbits his little place in the cosmos, waiting and waiting, for what he is not sure. He is aware of other stars in the distance. Some far older than him and some still only dust lying dormant until they too are crushed into being. He remains for a very short time. His end a swift one: in one moment he exists and in the next moment he is gone, snuffed out like candles not yet invented.

It is a lonely cycle, but it is by no means awful. How can one ache for what is unknown to them? He aches regardless.

* * *

He drifts for a long while, left idle in the ichor of the in-between. The place where all things wait for renewal, for rebirth. He is everywhere and nowhere all at once. It leaves him feeling stretched and condensed, pulled taut and confined. He can witness all that happens but is unable to intervene. Like an audience member of a play held behind a pane of one-way glass.

_‘Look,’_ that same voice says. Gently guides his gaze off towards the distance.

Curious, he watches as a star takes shape; of the large bits of debris that come to form from its afterbirth. One molten ball of castaway material stirs an interest within him. It is not particularly large, nor is it tiny. No ice comes to form in fantastical crystalline rings around it. It does not even have many companions. Only one, far smaller in size and not very much to look at.

He bears witness as the little unremarkable ball springs forth with life. Enraptured as a raging, boiling sea gives way to land, gives way to lush forest, gives way to small creatures. He longs so much to reach out and touch, feel, be at one with this new and exciting marvel that gives not a care for him. It is wonderful to watch as something outside of himself forms its own lonely existence. As time passes it becomes less and less like a bit of refuse. Becomes more and more like a living breathing thing to be held on par with that of stars.

Then _it_ comes, swift and almost without warning, a great big ball of flaming debris. It strikes first the smaller of the two, a great chunk of it sent drifting in the abyss that is space. This only slows the object’s progress, it does nothing in the way of hindering it.

Helpless, he is unable to do anything more than watch with a sickening fascination. Watch as the great beasts that roam the floating not-star are snuffed out, like so many actual stars. Like he was snuffed out once. But his was a quiet death, an uneventful ending to an uneventful existence. Theirs is violent and painful and slow. It is so very slow.

He turns his observations away from the garbage. For that is what it is now: a ball of garbage whose self has been obliterated. He keeps his attentiveness on everything except for the one floating blue sphere. Focuses on creation in other portions of the universe. Nothing out there is ever as marvelous as what he had borne witness to, perhaps nothing ever would be.

_‘My little one. My silly thing,’_ the kind voice says and its soft laugh echos all around.

Suddenly he feels it. A strong tug in one direction as opposed to billions and he lets himself sink into darkness. He doesn’t know why or how, but something within him tells him that his time has come. Where he will go he is unsure, but it surely would beat this non-existent existence.

_‘Be happy.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Binary Star System: A star system that is made up of two stars that orbit a common center. To the human eye they can appear as a single point of light in the sky. If they are particularly close the stars can exchange mass which may allow them to reach new evolutionary stages that single stars cannot obtain.
> 
> Two really well know binary star systems are: Sirius the brightest in the night sky, and Cygnus X-1 a black hole (how spooky!).  
> 
> 
> ~*~*~*~
> 
> This story started as a dream I had about one year ago. It happened after a fun night with many friends and a lot of fried chicken wings and yummy beer.
> 
> Please do not take it too seriously. It is simply fun for me to write and I thought other people might like to read the silly things my brain comes up with.
> 
> I will do my best to update once a week. But I have a busy life and may not always be able to.
> 
> If you spot any mistakes please let me know. I promise to try my best but I do not have a beta reader.
> 
> Thank you!


	2. Act II, Scene I // So Naive Was I, To The Fickleness Of Spring

_I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and become yours forever._

_~Robert Browning_

Larry is born into this life, for the first and what is to be the last time, not alone. Grandmother names him Little-Wave, after the lapping waters of the ocean that sits beside the valley. And seconds after comes his brother whom Grandfather names Night-Feather for his dark, dark hair. 

* * *

Many brothers and sisters he has. He must use both hands to count them. 

“Safe with many,” Grandfather tells him. “Not like _Before_.” The look in his eyes is cold and distant, mouth a thin line.

But it is not _Before_. It is _Now_. Now has Little family. Now has Mother and Father. Now has Grandmother and Grandfather. Now has Dawn, Night-Feather, Bright-Star, Ember, Fierce-Rain, Swift-Foot, Small-Bird, and Soft-Thunder. Now has him, Little-Wave. 

They live in a tent during the green time. Move from place to place. Make fire under the night sky. In the pale time, they live in a cave. Stay still. No sky above them, only rock. He likes the green time best. Birds sing in the trees. Fish swim in the river. Fruits hang heavy on the bush. And Star-Dancer comes back to the valley.

Other Little families come from all over to meet and make Big family. Many faces. More faces than he can count on both hands _and_ feet. More faces than he thinks he can remember. But always he looks for Star-Dancer and his Little family of Grandmother, Father, brother, sister, and dog. And it is good when he returns. Good like rain in hot weather. Good like fire in the pale time. When they meet it is bright. His chest is warm. They smile. They laugh. They dance silly steps with restless legs. Like the good will end if they stop.

And he knows Star-Dancer is his like the Sun is the Moon’s, like Father is Mother’s, like Grandmother is Grandfather’s. Since the first time they met, eight green times ago, he has known. He has known and it is good. Even if Star-Dancer does not know as he does. Does not know that Little-Wave is his like the Moon is the Sun’s, like Mother is Father’s, like Grandfather is Grandmother’s. Even if he looks at others the way Little-Wave looks at him. Does not keep him close to his heart as Little-Wave keeps him. Grandmother has told him many times to be still and wait. A well-made basket cannot be woven in a day. Blind eyes cannot be forced to see.

 _‘A wise woman,’_ a small voice whispers in his ear. _‘Listen to her little one.’_

Soon after Big family is made Father goes with many other Fathers and Mothers to hunt. They are painted in hues of bright red. Markings on their faces like that of the Great Beasts. Of Swift Leopard, of Cunning Wolf, of Prowling Lion, of Fearsome Bear. They hold great wooden spears, tips glistening in the Sun. Big family means many faces. Many faces mean many mouths. He wants to go with them, like his brothers, Night-Feather and Bright-Star; like his sister, Swift-Foot. Like Star-Dancer. Father looks at him, at them, at Star-Dancer. Father looks at the ground. “No,” he says. “Too small. Too dangerous. Safe here.” 

He is Firstborn. Older than Night-Feather ( _By moments!_ his brother’s voice argues in his head). Older than Swift-Foot. Older than Bright-Star. Older than Star-Dancer. All are taller than him. Broader than him. Faster too.

“Why?” he asks Mother. 

“More room,” Mother says, brushes aside his hair and kisses his forehead. 

_‘More food. More water. More safe,’_ the small voice says, tells him all the things Mother does not say.

“Be safe,” he says to Night-Feather, grips tightly at his hand. Presses his forehead to his brother’s. Looks into blue sky staring back at him. His brother looks at him, nods once, and then it is Swift Leopard who steps away. Who joins the pack for the hunt.

He stays behind with Mother. Watches as she trades for things Little family needs but does not have. Wants but cannot get. Delicately carved bone for funny colored leaves. Reed mats and baskets for thick and fluffy furs. Tiny shell beads that Grandmother makes in the morning sun for fist-sized rocks, black like Raven feathers and shiny like ice. 

Grandmother and Grandfather tell him good things about the _Before_ as they wait for the hunting party to return. Things from when there was no Little-Wave and Night-Feather. No Star-Dancer. No Mother. No Father. Just Grandmother and Grandfather. They tell him of the Little families coming to make Big family. They tell him of the green time then. Of the trading and the hunting. Of the dancing and the singing. They tell him of how Quick-River and Returning-Moon became Grandmother and Grandfather.

“How?” he asks as he has for the past six green times.

“I knew,” Grandmother says smiling softly as she holds Grandfather’s hand. “Like the Red Deer know the forest. I saw and I knew.”

“I knew…in time,” Grandfather says, a laugh in his words as he presses a kiss to Grandmother’s hand. “Like the old tree bears great mushrooms. Slowly. I knew.” 

He understands why they say this. Why they tell him. 

_‘Do not worry,’_ the voice assures him. _‘Keep him close. They were like you. Wait as the Stars wait for the Moon.’_

He helps Grandmother and Grandfather cook what food they have for Big family with the others left behind. There are many, many fires to feed many, many mouths. It is hard work, but he loves Grandmother and Grandfather. Loves them like the fish loves the water. So he helps. 

He watches his siblings while Grandfather weaves reed into great baskets. He fetches tools while Grandmother carves little shell beads. He braids back her hair while Mother boils yarrow and camomile and pine needles to make tea. He picks fruit and leafy greens for eating. He sings songs around the large fire and listens to tales of the _Before_ from other Grandmothers and Grandfathers. He waits.

The Sun rises and sets five times before Father and brothers and sister and Star-Dancer come back with the others. They carry Red Deer on their backs. They wear smiles on their faces. Swift-Foot and Star-Dancer hold hands.

He aches. But there is work to be done.

He helps Mother prepare the meat for smoking. She looks at him with sad eyes, but only when he pretends not to see. He helps Father clean the hides, rough hands scrape away sinew. He does not look at Little-Wave. He looks down at his work with unseeing eyes, mouth tight in a frown. He helps Swift-Foot wash away the ochre from her face. She excitedly tells him of the hunt and her cheeks flush pink when she talks of _him_. He listens and nods and watches paint mix with the river like blood. He helps Night-Feather search for greens to be eaten. He jokes and laughs and rough-houses like when they were small. He watches his brother smile. He sits with Grandmother and Grandfather as the rest of Big family celebrate. Listens as their voices rise into the night sky. Watches as bodies move swiftly in dance.

“My sweet-one,” Grandmother says. “My dear-heart.”

He looks at Grandfather who looks at the fire, pipe held tight between clenched teeth. He looks at Grandmother who looks at him with sad eyes like Mother. He looks down at her hand holding his. 

“It is fine Grandmother,” he says and looks at up at Swift-Foot and Star-Dancer. “I will wait.”

He pretends he does not hear the soft sigh from Grandmother. Pretends he does not see Grandfather rise to his feet and walk away. 

He knows, has known, and Star-Dancer will know when it is time for him to. So he will wait and it will be good again. 

* * *

The green time passes swiftly and with it comes the pale time. Big family breaks into many, many Little families with wishes of safe travel, tears of parting, and hope of the quick return of the green time again.

Swift-Foot does not join them for the pale time. She takes her things: her shell beads and bone needles, her stone knives and scrapers, her reed mats and baskets. She is not part of Little family with Grandmother and Grandfather. With Mother and Father. With their brothers and sisters. With Little-Wave.

It is sad. He is sad. He will miss his sister. Miss her like Bear misses the Sun in the pale time. Like the parched ground misses the rain. 

Mother cries. Great tears run down her cheeks as they part. She hugs Swift-Foot tight. Gives her the necklace she wears made of bright stone.

“Yours now,” Mother says as her shaking hands slip the necklace over Swift-Foot’s head. “Keep it close. Remember Little family of _Before_.” 

Their Little family is no longer of _Now_. It has been taken by the green time. Made one with _Before_. Swift-Foot is now part of _his_ Little family. Part of Grandmother, Father, brother, sister, and dog. Part of Star-Dancer.

Night-Feather eyes him. A question sits there in the downturn of his mouth. Waits in the wrinkled skin between his eyes. Little-Wave stands before Star-Dancer and grips tightly at his shoulder. He looks straight into eyes brown like the fur of Fearsome Bear. Looks and looks and finds nothing. 

_‘Blind eyes cannot be forced to see.’_ The voice is bitter in his chest, tongue sharp and sad. _‘I am sorry my little one. There is nothing I can do.’_

He breathes in. He breathes out. He speaks.

“Swift-Foot is yours now. You are Swift-Foot’s now. Like the Moon is the Sun’s. Like the Sun is the Moon’s.”

His chest is cold. He does not smile. He does not laugh. 

“Protect her,” he says to Star-Dancer who does not know. “Keep her close.”

“Of course, brother,” Star-Dancer replies, serious. So very serious.

They part then. Two Little families going separate ways.

And Little-Wave waits. And hopes. And yearns.

* * *

Grandmother and Grandfather do not make the long trek to their cave for the pale time.

Grandfather sleeps one night, beneath furs and in the arms of Grandmother. Come morning he still sleeps. But it is the Long Sleep.

They bury Grandfather, Returning-Moon, beneath a great tree. They paint his body in ochre, decorate his skin with intricate patterns meant only for the Long Sleep. He pretends he does not see Grandmother’s hands shake when she swipes paint across his brow.

Mother cries. Mourns the parting of her Father, as she lays precious reed baskets and mats at Grandfather’s feet. Tucks dried fruit and smoked meats next to his body. Leaves him with tools he will need in the next life so that he may hunt and gather and live. Rests his hornpipe within his hand.

They pile stone after stone after stone, heavy and unyielding, until a small hill of rock is formed. 

Grandmother sighs, soft and slow. Little-Wave holds her hand.

“I am old, my dear-heart. I am old and tired,” she says and her voice is like the wind through the reeds.

She looks at him, her face a mirror of his. There is pain there. A long felt weariness. And he knows what she will say. Just as he knows in the way that Star-Dancer does not.

“He will wait,” he says, mouth a thin line.

And it takes all within him not to cry great heaving tears upon their hands as she grips his more tightly. Not to curse. Not to beg.

“He will,”—Like the Stars wait for the Moon. Like the Red Deer waits for the green time. Like Quick-River once did for Returning-Moon.—“I cannot.”

He aches. It seems he is always aching now. In his bones. In his eyes. In his heart. 

He looks back to the fire. To Little Family as they huddle in sorrow. Catches the eye of Night-Feather who smiles so softly at him. So sadly. He wants to cry.

But there is work to be done. There is always, always, work to be done.

So he goes; with a heavy heart, he goes. 

“To gather,” he says, but only Grandmother hears. Only Grandmother knows.

He picks the last of the leafy greens that the green time offer him. He picks yarrow and camomile and pine needles. He picks fruits left hanging on the bush. He picks other fruits, black and round, and dangerous. Just enough for Grandmother. Just enough for the pale time. 

He keeps them in his leather pouch, safe and hidden. Makes tea for Little family while Father comforts Mother. Cooks meat and boils greens for Little family while Night-Feather and Bright-Star comfort each other. Comfort Dawn and Soft-Thunder, comfort Ember and Small-Bird, comfort Fierce-Rain. 

_‘But who comforts Little-Wave?’_ the kind voice asks, small and sad from somewhere in his chest. He has no answer.

He cuts some of the sweet fruit carefully, mashes it until juice drips willingly from dark flesh. He adds it to Grandmother’s tea and does not let it dye his fingers red. Red like ochre. Red like blood in the river. Mother cannot know. 

He goes then to Grandmother, bundled in her furs, and ready for sleep. Holds the cup between them. Watches steam rise into the cool night air.

“He will wait,” he whispers, as her wrinkled hands cup his.

“He will,” she whispers back, her thumb rubbing small circles of comfort on his skin.

“He will always wait,” he chokes out, feels a tear slip slowly, slowly down his cheek, his nose, his chin. 

He does not know if they still speak of Returning-Moon. Of Grandfather. The soft tremble of Grandmother’s hand as she cups his cheek. The love in her eyes as she whispers: _“Oh, my dear-heart, my sweet-one”_ ; tell him otherwise.

“It is okay,” she says softly, tenderly. Like a balm on cut skin, on scraped knees. “To want.”

He hears her. All the words she does not say.

 _‘It is okay. To want love. To take flight. To leave for kinder lands. Be happy.’_ the little voice says.

He shakes his head and pushes the warm tea into her hands. 

“Always,” He helps her lift the cup to her mouth, tired limbs steady as the river. “I will wait.”

Grandmother goes to sleep that night, bundled in furs and content. Come morning she still sleeps.

Quick-River and Returning-Moon walk the greener lands hand in hand.

* * *

Even in their cave the pale time is sharp. The cold hungers. It eats and eats and eats. It is greedy in the time of little. Takes food they do not have. Takes water they need to drink. Takes brothers and sisters. Takes Fierce-Rain and Soft-Thunder in many teeth. Takes Small-Bird in cold arms. Takes Ember and Dawn in thirst. Takes Bright-Star in hunger. Sinks teeth deep into Mother and Father. Leaves Little-Wave. Leaves Night-Feather.

 _‘I can do this,’_ whisperers the little voice, pleading and desperate. _‘Let me do this. I want you to be happy. Please.’_

Father takes him and Night-Feather to fetch wood. Lots and lots of wood. As much as they can find (they never find enough).

“For fire. For warmth,” he says, voice like wind through the reeds. “To keep the Great Beasts away.” 

But the Great Beasts howl and scream and shriek in the night. In hunger. In fear. In sorrow. Little-Wave does not know.

Little family becomes smaller. Shrunken like fruit left in the Sun. Like Bear in the pale time.

Many, many stones. Little piles resting. Sleeping the Long Sleep.

Mother cries. Cries and cries and cries. Sometimes she sleeps. Sometimes she just lays in her furs. It scares him. Scares him like the Fox scares the Rabbit. Father forces her to eat dried fruits they cannot spare. Forces her to drink sweet water that dwindles. Forces, forces, forces. She grows thin like a reed. Weak like a newborn babe. 

One day Mother speaks to him. 

“I am _tired_ ,” she says, moans into the quiet. “ _So tired_.” Father and Night-Feather are not in the cave. They search for food, for water, for wood. Only Little-Wave remains.

He knows what she wants to say. What she will say. Like he knew what Grandmother would say.

But he is tired. He aches. He _wants_.

“No,” he says, clutches at her furs. “No, no, no.”

“Little-Wave,” she says, quietly; so very quiet. A boney hand strokes his hair.

“Mother,” he argues. He _will_ not. He _cannot_.

“Please. Please, my sweet-one. _Please_ ,” He looks up at her and a stone finds home in his belly. Her eyes —tired, so tired, when did they get so tired?—gaze intense on his little leather pouch.

Mother _knows_. Mother has always known.

“ _Mama_ ,” he begs, but there is no fire. His chest is cold. His limbs are heavy.

Mother slips slowly into the Long Sleep and he lays down beside her. Tucks himself close to her side, helps her drape an arm over him. She hums as he closes his eyes and pretends. Pretends Mother’s warmth is not fading, her chest is not growing still. Pretends he does not hear the howling, ragged sadness of his Father. Pretends he does not feel the eyes of Night-Feather, like bits of the sky held in his head, stare at him where he lies.

He is Firstborn. Older than Night-Feather. Only Night-Feather now.

“ _Oh, Little-Wave,_ ” his brother whispers.

 _‘My little one,’_ the voice says and despairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neanderthals: Also known as Homo Neanderthalensis, are/were an extinct species/subspecies of archaic humans. They are believed to have gone extinct some 40,000 years ago.
> 
> They were hunter gatherers and mostly lived in small familial units. They may have had the ability to create fire, hearths in caves, weave, craft clothing, use medicinal plants, create art (such as cave paintings and jewelry), and even go sailing through the Mediterranean. 
> 
> Their diet was also varied and is thought to have consisted meats, various plants, nuts, and even mushrooms! 
> 
> Some theorize that they were able to vocalize. But to what extent is unknown.
> 
> ~*~*~*~
> 
> An update is here! 
> 
> If you spot any mistakes please let me know. I promise to try my best but I do not have a beta reader.
> 
> Thank you!


	3. Act II, Scene II // My Dreams Are Made Of Broken Glass, I Dance Upon Them Willingly

_“One day, she promised herself as she lay abed, one day she would allow herself to be less than strong._  
_But not today. It could not be today.”_

_~George R. R. Martin, “A Clash Of Kings”_

* * *

The green time comes again to the valley. Birds sing in the trees. Fish swim in the river. Fruit hangs heavy from the bush. Big family gathers.

Little-Wave knows better, understands _Before_ and _Now_. Understands Grandfather’s distant gaze, his thin mouth, his cold eyes.

They are the last Little family to arrive and such a _little_ Little family they are. For now Little family is Father, Night-Feather, and Little-Wave. No Grandmother and Grandfather. No Mother. No Bright-Star; no Dawn; no Soft-Thunder and Ember; no Small-Bird; no Fierce-Rain. 

Swift-Foot, heavy with child and glowing, runs to them. She looks at Father. Looks at Night-Feather. Looks at Little-Wave and cries; hugs them and guides them to her tent. She sits them before a fire, bowls of warm broth shoved into their hands, shoulders wrapped in soft furs.

“Drink,” she urges, sadness in her eyes.

They sit for a time before the fire. Sister tells them of her Little family. Of how they passed the pale time. They did not struggle. Did not fight the cold and its greed. Did not fear the howling of the Great Beasts. The worst of the pale time was Star-Dancer slipping on frozen water. Breaking his leg. Slowing his steps. Father is happy to hear this. He tells her of their Little family of _Before_. How it became Little family of _Now_. Promises to show her where Grandfather and Grandmother rest. Where Mother and brothers and sisters sleep. Beneath a cave wall covered in ochre that tells the tale of Little family. But Father tires now. Like an old man. Like Grandfather. He stands to help Father lie down but Night-Feather holds him still. Looks at him with sad eyes and says, “It is okay.”

There are many things he wants to say, to argue—He is Little-Wave. He is Firstborn. He is older than Night-Feather. He is older than Swift-Foot. There is work to be done and he must do it. He must ache. He must wait. He must do the hard things. So Night-Feather may smile. So Swift-Foot may be happy. So Father may not worry.—But they turn to ash in his mouth at his brother’s heavy gaze. At the feeling of his brother’s whole hand wrapping around his wrist with little effort.

“Rest,” his brother says.

‘ _You worry me. So small. Too small. You try so hard. Let me help. Please,’_ the voice whispers. It feels strange. To hear the words his brother will not say. He has never heard them before. _‘I am sorry,’_ the voice sighs, guilty and sad.

So, he sits and watches with half-lidded eyes as Night-Feather helps Father. Watches Swift-Foot slip from the tent, needed elsewhere. Sips at warm broth and clutches furs tighter, closer. A shiver runs down his back and he is cold. Cold though he is sat close to the fire. Cold like the pale time.

“Little-Wave!” a voice exclaims, a warm arm heavy on his shoulder. It is brighter. His chest less cold.

“Star-Dancer.” he says, voice rough and creaking like the bull frog. He is pulled into a tight embrace. Face shoved into a broad shoulder as hands hold him close.

“I feared you lost,” Star-Dancer whispers, tender like the rising sun. “Taken from me by the pale time.”

 _‘Maybe,’_ the voice hopes, wonders. _‘Too soon. Should not tell. Should not touch.’_

“I am not so easy to lose,”he replies, smiling into that shoulder.

“How I have tried!” his brother says, and there is mischief in his voice. “Like trying to lose the Moon.”

He laughs softly and pulls back from the embrace. Looks at the face of the one he holds close to his heart. Takes comfort in calloused hands gripping his shoulders tight.

“I am glad,” Star-Dancer says, smile on his lips. “I am very glad.”

Swift-Foot returns then, from wherever she had gone. Joins them by the fire, glowing, glowing, glowing. All of them are glowing. His very Little family. Happy and glowing and warm. It is good.

* * *

Big family does not hunt that night. There is no dancing. No feasting. But still they gather around a large fire and speak fond words of those who were lost. Taken by the pale time. They mourn in the safety of the green time.

He sits and he listens. It is sad. He is sad. But he does not cry. Instead he holds Night-Feather close. Strokes hair as dark as Raven feathers, much like his own. Whispers words of comfort as his brother cries for all they have lost. And they have lost so much.

 _‘But who comforts Little-Wave?’_ that small and sad voice asks once more like _Before_. But this is _Now_ and for the first time he tries to ignores it. ‘ _Who strokes Little-Wave’s hair?’_ the voice growls insistently. ‘ _Who holds Little-Wave close? Who whispers comforts in Little-Wave’s ear?’_ He knows the answer. The small voice knows too. But he is _tired_. He is tired in a way that scares him. Like the Owl scares the Mouse. So he does not answer.

A Grandmother from one of the many Little families stands. Grey hair plaited neatly on her head. Wrinkled hands steady as they rise above her. He sighs at the sight of her.

She leads them in the Song of Dreaming. Her voice is steady as she sings. Like the wind through the trees. Like great waves upon the shore.

* * *

Within the tent of his sister, beneath a small pile of furs —he is cold, always so cold—he dreams. He dreams of many strange things.

 _‘Remember,’_ the voice says. _‘Be happy.’_

One moment he is bright and warm but his chest yearns for something. Something unfamiliar and unknown. Something promised him. It grips him, all of him, and he _wants_. But then he is gone. It is dark.

Another moment he soars high, high above the hills, above the rivers. He is swift and fast, feathers sleek and beautiful. A call to his right and there soars another. As swift and fast as him. Feathers more sleek. Feathers more beautiful.

 _‘Mine_ ,’ his being shouts. ‘ _Mine. Mine. Mine.’_

And he and this other, lovelier—lovely, lovely, lovely and mine—bird soar faster and further. Fly closer. He squawks. Dips and twists in the air around the other. They crow back. Mirror his movements in turn. They circle higher and higher into the blue sky above them. Rest upon the grey rock. Take shelter under the green trees.

 _‘Yours,’_ he coos. Presses his face into their feathers, tender. ‘ _Always yours.’_

 _‘Mine_ ,’ they agree. Face pressed to his just as fiercely. Just as firm. ‘ _Always mine.’_

Together they grow old and slow. Movements stiffen, feathers dull.

 _‘Mine,’_ his being still shouts. After many green and pale times. Many passings of the Moon. ‘ _Mine. Mine. Mine.’_

They are still so lovely, always so lovely— _lovely, lovely, lovely and mine_ —he thinks as the blue sky calls him home.

And then he is Lion. And after he is Bear. He is Deer. He is Fox, and Owl, and Mouse. He is Wolf.

 _‘Mine,’_ each version of him cries out. ‘ _Mine. Mine. Mine.’_

_‘Yours,’_ they all answer. ‘ _Yours. Yours. Yours.’_

It is too much. It is not enough.

And then, right before he wakes he dreams of something different. It is softer than the rest. It is warm like sand on a cloudless day. The edges like thick furs draped over him.

 _‘What might have been,’_ the voice says, _‘What could still be.’_

In his dream the green time comes. Little families make Big family. And Star-Dancer returns to the valley. Waits for him. It is bright. His chest is warm. They smile. They laugh. They dance silly steps with restless legs.They hunt side by side. Gather green things in the shade. They smoke meat and clean hides. They sit hand in hand before the great fire and speak of the _Before_. Tell those around them how Little-Wave and Star-Dancer became Grandfather and Grandfather.

“How?” many little faces ask, eager and curious.

“I knew,” he says, smiling softly as he holds Star-Dancer’s hand. “Like Raven knows the sky. I saw and I knew.”

“I knew…in time,” Star-Dancer says, a laugh in his words as he presses a kiss to his hand. “Like Cunning Wolf follows the Hare. Slowly. I knew.”

He wakes to the Sun slipping over the valley. Rises from the dirt floor, quiet like the Mouse. Tugs warm furs closer and slips from the tent into the cool morning air. He sits at the edge of the river. Dips feet in clear running waters. Watches the Sun rise higher and higher.

* * *

Father cannot join the hunt this green time. He tires quickly. He sleeps so often now. Swift-Foot is with child. Her body weary. She must remain. Star-Dancer cannot move as he did _Before_. His steps are slow. His gait uneven. He must stay.

Night-Feather argues, loud and sharp and stinging. With Swift-Foot and Star-Dancer. With the Mothers and Fathers. With the Grandmothers and Grandfathers. With Little-Wave.

“No,” his brother says, snarling like Swift Leopard. “You are too small. You are too weak. You are too tired.”

 _‘Let me do this.’_ the voice whispers, guilty, guilty, guilty. ‘ _Let me do this. Keep you safe. Alone. Always alone. You worry me. Worry me fiercely. Cannot lose you. Cannot, cannot, cannot.‘_

But Big family cannot live on greens and fruits for all of the green time. Fish are quick and slippery, not easily caught. There are many, many faces. Young, and lean, and hungry in the green time of _Now._ Little family was not the only one to lose so much. To lose so many.

He looks at Father, sat by the fire and so weary. So old and tired and sad.

He looks at Night-Feather, sees the fear in his eyes. The misplaced anger that lingers on his face.

He looks at Swift-Foot and the swell of her belly. At the flush of her cheeks, a bit thinner now. She does not glow as brightly.

He looks at Star-Dancer. At his bowed head, focused towards the floor, on his foot. The slow, stuttering wiggle of his toes.

His decision is made. Was already made with shared smiles nine green times ago. Made with the first cries of his newborn sister. With the first laugh of his mischievous little brother.

“I am Firstborn.” he says, grips his brother’s hand, presses their foreheads together.

 _‘You are strong,’_ his own words used against him. ‘ _You are strong. And I know. I ask so much. I ask too much. But let me. Let me. Please.’_

Night-Feather tears his hand away. Slips from the tent and stalks into the night. Little-Wave sits down near to Father. Rests a thin hand upon graying hair.

“He will see,” Father murmurs, with a voice like wind through the reeds. “He will see the great stone you must carry. He will come back.”

They settle for the night, tucked safe beneath furs. He sleeps light and fitfully. Lays there in the tent. Listens to the call of Owl. The song of the crickets. The bay of Wolf far off in the distance.

He remembers when he and Night-Feather were small. Mischief on restless legs Grandmother would call them. Mother could only tell them apart by their eyes. One made two Mother would say. From the tops of their heads to the soles of their feet. So alike and so different.

He closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. Wills his body to drift, to sleep. A weight settles next to him. An unsteady hand strokes his hair. Heavy and warm. He opens his grey eyes and stares. Blue sky stares back at him in the dark. Like his and not all at once. No words pass between them. The night is long.

Night-Feather’s hands are steady in the first rays of the Sun. He paints their skin in ochre. Strokes delicate, precise. He looks and sees Cunning Wolf stand before him. Tall and proud, spear tip glistening in the Sun. Father eyes them from where he sits by the great fire. There is pride there. There is worry.

“Be strong.” Father commands.

“Be quick.” Swift-Foot urges.

 _“_ Be safe.” Star-Dancer says and not long after the voice whispers, soft and guilty.

‘ _Come back. Come back to me.’_

Cunning Wolf nods her two heads at once. She joins the pack. Looks with different colored eyes around herself. Sees Swift Leopard, Prowling Lion, Fearsome Bear. A cry tears from twin throats. It rallies. It gives strength. The hunt has begun.

* * *

The pack is small this green time. Smaller than it has ever been. They are vulnerable now. Soft underbelly more exposed than _Before_. Cunning Wolf urges them forward. The hunt must succeed. They cannot falter. The Sun rises and sets three times before Prowling Lion sees them. Small dots in the distance. Quietly they move through the tall grass. Step by quiet step they draw closer.

It is Fearsome Bear who strikes first. Her three heads let loose a loud roar as she throws forth her spears. One, two, three Red Deer fall to her hand. Blood is spilt on green ground. Swift Leopard gives chase. His four heads lock onto his prey and aim true. One, two, three, four Red Deer fall to the ground, still and unmoving. Prowling Lion lets loose a cry of joy. Her three heads holler in victory at their successful hunt.

From somewhere in the distance another pack answers. Drawn out by the smell of blood. The sounds of victory.

The pack looks to Cunning Wolf. She bares two sets of teeth and snarls in response. The pack nod their many heads and pull their spoils close. They form a tight circle and keep their backs to it and wait. They do not wait long.

Cunning Wolf can see it as the other pack draws near. The desperation in their stance. The hunger in their gaze. They are one in the same. But here in the _Now_ with many mouths to feed it does not matter. They too will fall to their spears. Will lie still and unmoving.

The fight is a blur. A rapid exchange of cries and shouts and growls. Spears fly through the air, followed by sharp claws and gnashing teeth. Ochre mixes with blood. So much blood. It makes the air smell sharp. Makes the ground feel soft.

And then her side burns. Sharp and bright and painful. Cunning Wolf cries out, but it is Night-Feather who stumbles on his feet. Who clutches at his belly. Who feels his hands run red with blood. Who falls.

The scream that tears itself from Little-Wave is a thing to be feared. It reminds the pack of the Great Beasts. Scares them like the Lion scares the Deer. It is Little-Wave who lunges. Who bites. Who sinks teeth deep into the throat of the man stood over his brother and tears. Stares with cold eyes as the body falls in a heap at his feet.

The pack is quiet as they watch. Watch Cunning Wolf become Firstborn. Watch Firstborn become Little-Wave. Watch Little-Wave become brother. Always brother.

“No.” he screams, stumbles towards his brother. His legs give way beneath him.

_‘I am sorry.’_

“No.” he begs, pulls his brother close. Runs a thin hand over hair so like his own.

_‘I am so sorry.’_

_“_ No. _”_ he cries, finally, _finally_ cries. Great, ugly tears run down his cheeks. His nose. His chin.

_‘I cannot change this. I cannot fix this.’_

_“Oh, brother.”_ Night-Feather whispers, voice soft and tender and full of love as it slips away from him.

_‘I am sorry.’_

He kneels there, in the mud and the blood. Clutches his brother tight and cries. Cries and cries and cries. And the pack watches on. It is night when his grief loosens its grip. When the tears no longer flow. Moon sits high above their heads.

He breathes in. He breathes out. He hisses at the pain that blooms beneath his ribs. It is red there and in the faint light something sleek and shining glistens at him. He is tired. So _tired._

 _“_ Please _,”_ he begs the voice that has always been there. “Please _. Help me._ ”

And the voice growls low and deadly and protective from within. ‘ _Of course, little one. You need only ask. Stand and I shall help you.’_

He is awash in warmth then. Like being tucked beneath thick furs. Like being held in a warm embrace. He lifts Night-Feather up onto his back. He pulls limp arms over his shoulders and stands. Struggles for a moment beneath his brother’s weight and then steadies.

 _‘You are heavy brother_ ,’ he thinks absently. Slips easily into the waiting embrace of soft fur, firm muscle, and sharp teeth.

The pack lift the Red Deer onto their backs. They stare at Little-Wave in silence. It is Cunning Wolf who stares back. Who bares her lonely set of teeth and howls raggedly at the Moon. Who they follow without hesitation. The Sun rises and sets only once in their trek back to the valley. They do not stop for rest, for food, for water. Cunning Wolf will not let them.

Big family is silent upon their return. Distantly Cunning Wolf can hear the wet cries of a baby off in the distance. Can feel the touch of Little-Wave’s other half—‘ _Blind and stupid and undeserving’_ she thinks—on her shoulder. But she shrugs it off. Lurches unseeing towards a familiar great tree. Her back stooped with the weight of his burden. ‘ _Not a burden, never a burden.’_ Little-Wave distantly insists. Knows that soon there will be three little stone hills where there should only be two. Grimaces. It does not matter.

There is work to be done and if her little one cannot do it alone, Cunning Wolf will gladly lend her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backed by archaeological evidence, some anthropologists argue that Neanderthals may have been advanced enough to practice care giving for the sick and injured. 
> 
> It is thought that due to their tendency towards small community sizes that they might have tended to the severely injured, ill, disabled, and even assisted one another in child birth as a means of survival.
> 
> ~*~*~*~
> 
> I am very sorry that it has taken me so long to post an update.
> 
> Life has become very taxing for me in many aspects.
> 
> If you spot any mistakes please let me know. I promise to try my best but I do not have a beta reader.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience.


	4. Act II, Scene — // An Unexpected Interlude

It is warm here. The ground beneath him soft. It would be easy. To lay still. To sleep the Long Sleep.

 _‘That will not do,’_ the voice says softly. Taps his cheek until grey eyes open. _‘Oh, you are not mine.’_ And then it is cold. The ground beneath like stone. Swift Leopard stands above him. 

Eyes like the night sky look down at him as the Great Beast bares his teeth, white and sharp and deadly. _‘You should not be here. You cannot be here,’_ he growls.

“I am sorry?” he says, not sure for what he is apologizing.

 _‘Not your fault,’_ Swift Leopard says, slinks away from him and sits back on his haunches. Long, sleek tail wags lazily behind him. _‘Sister-mine does not respect that which is not hers. What she has no claim to.’_

“Sister-mine?” he asks; props himself up on his elbows.

 _‘She is called many names. To you, in this time, she is Cunning Wolf.’_ A large pink tongue licks at spotted chops. _‘How fitting.’_

He sits for a moment. Looks at Swift Leopard. Sees ochre and blood. Sees spears and teeth and claws. Sees one become two become one all alone. _Always alone…_

“Night-Feather,” he sighs, remembers _Before_. He stands quickly. Wrings thin hands. Moves restless legs. His heart races for a different reason. “My brother. He sleeps the Long Sleep. He needs me.” _He’ll be so scared. All alone._

 _‘Ah, yes. My claim,’_ Swift Leopard says slowly. Like his mouth was not used to words. His tongue not made for them. _‘He is not hers. Nor is the other one she meddles with. They never were. And yet she thinks she can do this?’_

A snarl rips free from Swift Leopard’s throat. A moment passes. Cold eyes look at him. And pounce. 

_‘You will go. You cannot stay here.’_ A paw presses him firmly to the ground. Claws catch on soft flesh. _‘But Sister-mine must be put in her place. She must learn there are consequences for her actions.’_

 _‘Promises must be kept. Balance maintained.’_ He lays frozen beneath. Cannot speak. Cannot think. Cannot breath. Swift Leopard looms above. ‘ _She has taken from me twice over, so now I shall take from her.’_

The pressure on his chest increases. Something within him begins to crack.

 _‘All things have a cost and for you that cost is blood. That cost is pain.’_ Spotted head rears back. Teeth glint in the light. _‘You would do well to remember that.’_

Swift Leopard strikes.


	5. Act II, Scene III // I Am The Stubborn Stone, Forced Smooth By The River

_“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”_

_~ Federico Garcia Lorca, “Blood Wedding and Yerma”_

* * *

He wakes to pain. To hands holding him down. Someone digs fingers deep into his side and it burns. Everything burns and burns and burns.

_‘Stop. Make it stop,’_ he begs. _‘Please, please. Make it stop. stopstopstops—‘_

The hand digs further. Touches something and pulls. He can hear someone scream. Then everything plummets into darkness.

* * *

The next time he wakes is to the sound of humming. A lullaby his brain recalls.

He is being propped up at an angle by a strong, steady grip. Another set of hands scratch at his scalp in a soothing manner. His hair is wet.

He tries to open his eyes, but it is like moving a boulder uphill. The hands stop their movement. He whimpers at the loss.

“Enough of that now.” a voice reprimands, soft but firm and he is far too tired to disobey.

Soon enough the hands in his hair move again. He slips into slumber once more.

* * *

He wakes again, this time to the voice of his sister. He does not try to open his eyes this time. Lets the sound wash over him.

“This is Uncle, little-one.” 

The soft babble of a baby answers.

“He _is_ very strong, like Cunning Wolf, and just as stubborn.”

A coo now that grows in volume until it is hushed by Swift-Foot.

“Fear not, little-one. I know for a fact that he would like you very much. We must be patient and wait for him to wake.”

Another voice speaks, deep and familiar, words lost to the pounding of his skull. 

_‘Blind eyes cannot be forced to see.’_ And whose words are those he wonders?

Wonders until with a harsher edge Swift-Foot cuts them off.

“He _will_ wake.”

It falls silent and something tells him another voice should be here, intermingled with the rest of them, but nothing comes.

He falls once more.

* * *

He wakes, fully this time, to the pale hide of a tent above his head. The air is heavy with smoke, sweet and cloying to his nose. The burning is still there. Throbbing constant but dulled. He turns his head. Swallows back the sour feeling that climbs up his throat. Father sits there, sleeping. His eyes dance hidden behind the skin of his lids. He looks so tired, even in sleep. 

He opens his mouth to speak, to say something, anything. All that comes out is a moan, low and croaking. He watches Father stir. Watches as the skin of his brow wrinkle. Watches the corners of his lips tug downwards. He regrets. 

“Little-Wave,” Father says. “You are awake.”

Father’s eyes are sad when they look at him. So sad as Father strokes his hair and says, “I am glad.”

He tries to speak again, to ask after his brother. To ask after his sister and her baby. Father holds up a hand when he tries. Asks him for silence. Strokes his hair again and breathes in a weary breath.

“Night-Feather…he sleeps the Long Sleep,” and it is said with a gentle finality. Little-Wave knew this. Understood it when he hefted his brother’s weight upon his back. His brother’s body cold like snow upon his skin. His cooling blood steaming where it fell upon the ground.

“Nng…” is the only sound that makes it past his lips before he clamps them shut. Forces himself to sit up despite the quaking of his arms. The burning in his side. He blinks hard. Shakes with the effort to hold back. To keep his pain within.

He is Firstborn. He is older than Swift-Foot. Only Swift-Foot now. He is supposed to be the one to wait. The one to ache. The one to do the hard things. He cannot fall apart now. Not now. Not—

“It is okay, Little-Wave,” his Father says, cutting through his thoughts as he is enveloped in a warm embrace. “It is okay.”

And it is as if his body, his treacherous body, takes it as permission to break. To shatter like obsidian to a blunt rock. As if it has been waiting. Waiting for this moment. For those words to just stop and let go.

He sobs, ugly and painful where he sits, surrounded by the arms of his Father.

“I am sorry,” he says between sobs and quick gasps for breath as all his mistakes rear their ugly heads. “I tried. I tried, Father. I tried.”

“Little Wave,” Father says as his embrace tightens. But it is a distant thing in comparison to the thoughts overtaking Little-Wave’s mind.

“All were mine to look after. To keep safe. Grandmother and Grandfather.”

“Little-Wave,” Two mounds of rock left to mock him beneath a great tree.

“Brothers. Sisters. Mother.”

“Little-Wave,” Seven little mounds left all alone within the cold stone of a cave.

“I am Firstborn. Night-Feather was mine to look after. I should have known. I should have seen.”

His brother, mischief on restless legs, looking small, so small —when did he get _so small?_ —falls again and again and again and—

“Little-Wave!” He gasps, chest heaving as his Father forces him to look at him. As gentle hands cup his face. 

“It should have been me,” he sobs, tears obscuring his view. “It should have been me.”

“Oh, my Son. My Firstborn, my Little-Wave,” Father embraces him once more. Arms wrap tight around him. A face, weathered by time and grief, presses into his hair. “I have failed you.”

“No, Father, never. I—” Father hugs him tighter.

“No, my Son. I have failed you. I am your Father. You are mine to look after,” he is rocked gently to and fro. “Upon your back I have placed a heavy burden by bringing you into the world. And for years you have stood and carried it ceaselessly, silently. Accepted it like one accepts the rising of the Moon, the setting of the Sun. Even now you sit here, alive and so strong, much stronger than I could ever have hoped, bearing that burden and yet…”

Father’s voice breaks like waves upon the shore and he can only listen as the man sobs softly into his hair.

“And yet you fail to see your own worth. Oh, I have failed you my Son.”

He cannot speak. No words find home on his tongue. So he sits and listens to his Father cry. Lets himself be cradled. Lets himself be rocked as a litany of apologies falls from his Father’s mouth like water from the sky. 

_‘But who comforts Little-Wave?’_ he remembers a small voice, now silent, asking what seems like many pale times ago. _‘Who strokes Little-Wave’s hair? Who holds Little-Wave close? Who whispers comforts in Little-Wave’s ear?’_

He wishes he could go back to a time when he did not have an answer that weighed so heavy in his chest.

* * *

“The wound still needs time to heal,” a Grandmother assures him, hand cool against his brow. “Be patient as your strength comes back to you.”

_‘Sister-mine must be put in her place,’_ another voice harshly whispers in his ear. _‘She has taken from me twice over, so now I shall take from her.’_

He knows what was meant by those words. He knows in the way he always knows. Knows even though that little voice stays silent.

Perhaps he should tell her.

“Of course,” he replies instead.

* * *

Swift-Foot sits with him once the Grandmothers of Big family, made wise with the passing of so many pale times, deem him fit for company.

Around his neck she places her necklace of bright stone. “For strength,” she says.

He touches it. Feels her warmth lingering in the bright colored stone. He wants to thank her, but no words come. At least no words she would want to hear.

“There is someone who wishes to meet you,” she says instead, eager smile tugging at her lips. “If you are okay with it?”

He smiles in return, fighting to ignore the still present burning in his side. To ignore the insistent weariness in his bones. To ignore the growing chasm in his chest.

She beckons at the opening of the tent. It is Father who emerges first, followed by Star-Dancer and in his arms…

“Oh,” he says as he takes in the squirming bundle.

“Would you…” Star-Dancer pauses to glance at Swift-Foot who nods, “Would you like to hold her?”

He looks down then at his arms, his hands. Takes in how thin they are, how they tremble. Looks up at Star-Dancer who looks back and says “It is okay,” and smiles, “I will help you.”

Before he can protest the little, delicate bundle is placed into his arms. Star-Dancer sits behind him, leans him back against his chest and supports his arms.

“See,” Star-Dancer says from where he perches his chin upon Little-Wave’s bony shoulder. “Nothing to worry about.”

He looks down at the small face nestled within warm fur and wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to ask what Sun, what Moon, what Star, what Great Beast thought this fair.

Blue sky stares back at him. 

_‘Balance maintained,’_ an increasingly familiar voice whispers.

“What is her name?” he asks instead. Forces a trembling hand to be still and gentle as it brushes away a soft black lock of hair.

“Father named her Shining-Moon,” Swift-Foot says from where she sits.

He draws in a deep breath, closes his eyes and lets a calm happiness wash over him. He looks down at the babe in his arms and smiles.

“It is wonderful to meet you Shining-Moon.”

In response Shining-Moon looks at him and coos, happy and bright.

Little-Wave spends the rest of the afternoon swept up in the simple joy of seeing her smile. Of hearing her babble. It is good.

* * *

When night comes he sleeps but no rest is to be found. Has not been found since he woke many moons ago to the sleeping form of his Father.

Behind closed eyes he sees his brother. Sees the blood that flows. Seeps from his face, his belly, his mouth. 

Hears him say _“Oh, brother.”_ over and over. Each time still as soft and tender as the first. 

He hates it. 

He loves it.

He hates that he longs for it.

He does not deserve it. 

_“Safe with many,”_ says Grandfather.

_“Oh, my dear-heart,”_ says Grandmother.

_“Little-Wave,”_ says Mother.

_“Oh, brother,”_ says Night-Feather.

_“He will wake,”_ says Swift-Foot.

_“Oh, my Son,”_ says Father.

_“I feared you lost,”_ says Star-Dancer.

_‘My little one,’_ says the tiny voice.

_“Yours,”_ whispers a voice he has only heard once in his dreams. _“Yours, yours, yours.”_

He does not deserve such words said so kindly. So soft. So tender. As though he is a thing of value. Something precious. Something worth safe keeping.

He is Little-Wave. He is Firstborn. He is older than Swift-Foot. Older than Star-Dancer. Older than Brothers. Older than Sisters. Older than Night-Feather. If there was work to be done he must do it. He must ache. He must wait. He must do the hard things.

But Night-Feather is gone, like so many others.

Swift-Foot has Star-Dancer.

Star-Dancer has Swift-Foot.

Father has his long awaited Grandchild, Shining-Moon.

What does Little-Wave have?

_‘Alone. Always alone.’_ that tiny voice once whispered.

* * *

With every passing Sun the pale time looms closer and closer. Moon hangs longer and longer within the sky. Sun in turn hiding away sooner and sooner still. 

This night, like many before it, is not a restful one. Little-Wave stares at the pale hide of the tent. He closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. Wills his body to drift, to sleep. No weight settles next to him. No hand strokes unsteady at his hair. Heavy and warm. He opens grey eyes and stares. Pale hide is all that meets his gaze.

Quietly he rises from a bed of soft furs. Leaves them behind as he slips from his Sister’s tent into the cold evening air. His legs, weak as they are, carry him to a great tree. To the newest mound to find shelter beneath its green leaves and strong branches. The Moon and Stars shine bright above him.

He stretches out beside the little mound whose rocks are heavier than the greatest of boulders. Sighs, wearily, exhaustedly, as he looks through green canopy to the night sky above them.

“I ache, Night-Feather.” He listens to the wind as it dances among the trees. 

“This great stone is growing heavy.” Somewhere in the distance he can hear the mourning cry of Wolf at the Moon.

“I do not know how much more I can carry.” A Raven caws, in protest or in sorrow Little-Wave does not know.

“I do not know how much longer I can wait.” He rests a hand against the necklace he wears, rubs at one of the bright stones.

_‘Wait for what?’_ a tired voice, his own voice, asks. And for the first time in Little-Wave’s existence he finds he does not know. Once he thought he knew. Like the Owl knows the evening sky. Once he allowed himself to want. Want for things he could not have. Should not have. And look at where it got him. 

_‘She must learn that there are consequences for her actions.’_

“I am tired, brother.” He closes his eyes, listens to the slow beat of his heart. He prays to anyone who will listen that he does not wake.

Unfortunately for Little-Wave, no one does.

* * *

Once more he wakes to pain. He wakes to a burning fire that runs through his veins. Throbs in time with the beat of his heart. It is much easier to ignore this time.

He opens his eyes and looks around him until he catches sight of the only person there. It is Star-Dancer who kneels beside him, turned towards something Little-Wave cannot see.

He allows himself to be selfish. To stare. To take in the toned muscle and tanned skin of the other’s back. Smiles at the sight of a small handful of freckles he had once traced in the warm rays of the Sun so many green times ago.

All too soon his selfish moment is over. Star-Dancer turns back to him with a damp cloth. Startles when he notices his eyes upon him.

“You are awake,” Star-Dancer whispers, as if speaking louder will cast him back into slumber. “I should get a Grandmother.”

As Star-Dancer moves to rise Little-Wave reaches out and grasps tightly at his wrist.

“Stay,” he pleads. When it looks as though Star-Dancer might protest he whispers “Please, stay.”

The other sinks back down to kneel beside him. Reaches out with a trembling hand to tuck a sweaty lock of dulled black hair behind his ear. Settles to cup his cheek.

“What were you thinking?” That voice that has always reminded him of the Sun asks. “We thought,” a pause followed by a shuddering intake of air. “We thought you slept the Long Sleep.”

He reaches for the hand upon his cheek. Grasps it in a pitifully weak hold. 

A thumb, calloused with use, rubs broad strokes across his cheek. “I thought you lost to me.” 

“I am not so easy to lose,” he replies, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Like trying to lose the Moon I am told,” Star-Dancer answers in reply, smiling at their shared silliness.

They stay like that for a time. Finding comfort in the quiet. And it is good. Good like rain in hot weather. Good like fire in the pale time. Good in a way it hasn’t been for far too long. His chest is warm.

Eventually Star-Dancer sighs into the quiet. And somehow Little-Wave knows. This marked the end. There would be no more green times.

_‘Promises must be kept.’_

“Star-Dancer,” he says, voice like wind through the reeds.

_‘Come back. Come back to me.’_

He looks straight into brown eyes. Wonders how he ever thought them to look anything like the fur of Fearsome Bear. Looks and looks and sees not fur but soil, rich with life and awaiting the green time.

_‘What might have been. What could still be.’_

He breathes in. 

_‘Remember. Be happy.’_

He breathes out. 

_‘Mine, mine, mine.’_

He speaks.

_‘Mine, always mine.’_

“I knew,” he says, licks at dry and cracking lips. “Like Raven knows the sky. I saw and I knew.” 

“Little-Wave?” Brown eyes meet his fever bright ones, confusion set deep within them.

_‘I can do this. Let me do this. I want you to be happy. Please.’_

“I will wait,” he says again. His voice must be growing quiet for Star-Dancer leans closer. His long hair brushing against his face. Creating a curtain between them and everything else.

“Little-Wave, please. Let me—” He tightens his grip on that calloused hand. Brings it the long, long distance to his mouth. Presses lips to sun kissed skin.

_‘Lovely, lovely, lovely, and mine.’_

“I will always wait,” he promises against that skin. Promises to those kind eyes.

_‘You will go. You cannot stay here.’_

Something shines within those eyes. Eyes he feels he has always known. Would always know. 

_‘Yours, yours, yours.’_

“No,” Star-Dancer pleads, clutches tightly to his own thin hand. 

_‘A well-made basket cannot be woven in a day.’_

_‘How cruel,’_ he thinks, as the world slips out of focus. _‘Why must the Great Beasts be so cruel to us?’_

_‘All things have a cost and for you that cost is blood.’_

“Always,” he whispers, the word tumbles clumsily like a stone in the river. Left to settle between them. 

There is a chaos above him. Around him. Star-Dancer yells for someone. Anyone. Grips tight to Little-Wave’s hand. Cries and cries and cries. Must be pulled away by both Father and Swift-Foot. Begs and begs for Little-Wave not to leave. 

“Come back,” Words left unsaid, spoken aloud for all to hear. “Come back to me.” 

_‘That cost is pain.’_

Sobs silently as three mounds beneath a great tree become four. 

Listens numbly as Swift-Foot leads them all in the Song of Dreaming.

_‘You would do well to remember that.’_   
  
  


But Little-Wave knows none of this. 

His heart beats its final, fervent beats. 

His hands release their weak hold. 

His lungs draw in one breath, 

  
  


and another, 

and another,

and 

another—

  
  


Grey eyes slip closed and he knows nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Septicemia : A bacterial infection that spreads into the bloodstream and can cause blood poisoning, leading to sepsis.
> 
> Sepsis : The body’s natural response to a high foreign (in this case bacterial) presence in the bloodstream. Leads to the immune system triggering extreme and potentially whole-body inflammation.
> 
> Signs of Infection:  
> \- Expanded redness around the wound  
> \- Yellow/Green puss or a cloudy drainage/discharge from the wound  
> \- Increased swelling, tenderness, or pain around the wound  
> \- Fever
> 
> ~*~*~*~
> 
> A wild chapter appears!
> 
> Thank you, all of you who take the time to read my little story. I am very grateful.
> 
> Sorry once again for the slow and staggered updates. We have reached a point where even I am unaware of what will happen next.
> 
> If you spot any mistakes please let me know. I promise to try my best but I do not have a beta reader.
> 
> Critiques are welcome. But please be gentle. I am a soft soul. Like a rice cake.
> 
> I hope you all had a good holiday. I hope the New Year has been kind to you. I hope that it continues to be kind to you.
> 
> Thank you for your patience.


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